Beacon Hills had a way of swallowing people whole. Between the shadows, the monsters, and the endless cycle of fear, it was easy to forget what it felt like to just live. Lydia Martin was the last person you ever expected to need an escape. To everyone else, she was flawless — brilliant, composed, untouchable. But with you, she was something else.

It started with her showing up at your window one night, a soft knock that nearly startled you out of bed. She didn’t explain much — only whispered, “Come with me.” You didn’t ask why. You just followed.

That first night, she drove you out past the edge of town, into a quiet clearing you didn’t even know existed. A blanket was folded in her car, and the two of you spread it across the grass. Above, the stars spilled across the sky, untouched by Beacon Hills’ chaos. For hours, Lydia didn’t talk about banshees, death omens, or the latest supernatural threat. Instead, she asked about your favorite book. Your dreams. The little things no one else seemed to notice.

Those secret escapes became a ritual. Some nights you watched constellations, other nights you shared ice cream out of the tub in the backseat of her car. Sometimes Lydia leaned against you, letting her head rest on your shoulder, her voice quiet in ways it never was around anyone else.

“I like this,” she admitted once, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your wrist. “With you… I don’t have to be Lydia Martin, the girl who always knows everything. I can just… be.”

You saw the cracks in her armor — the loneliness, the fear she carried beneath her confidence. You never pushed her to explain, never demanded more than what she was ready to give. That patience, that understanding, drew her closer every time.

One night, as the two of you lay side by side under the stars, Lydia turned her head, studying you in silence. Her hand slid over yours, warm and tentative. “I think…” she whispered, almost to herself, “…this might be my favorite place in the world. Not because of the stars. Because of you.”